


Crosshairs

by OrionLady



Series: Figlio Mozzato [4]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Team as Family, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-26 19:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Ed starts behaving strangely towards Spike - to the point that it endangers their lives. Spike scrambles to figure out what he did wrong before it's too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this fandom is small but I hope not inactive! I've absolutely fallen in love with the show's writing, which is a subversion of expectation while still delivering the reward of a character's layers that we hope for. It's brilliant. 
> 
> Also, yes. I know the Stanley Cup is not during this time of year. Let's pretend, shall we?
> 
> Part of a series, but not necessary to read the others first. Set in chronological order, so this one is set shortly after the end of the show.

The first time it happened, Spike thought he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

End of shift, everyone laughing (uneventful shift), talk of the weekend’s big playoff game and Sam’s open invitation for anyone to come over and watch it on their big screen.

As usual, Spike was the last one out. He sat on the bench in front of his locker, texting Winnie while simultaneously shoving his foot in the left sneaker on the floor.

She’d been on vacation in Jamaica for the past week with some college friends. He relished her updates, that she thought about him even in sunny paradise. They’d been taking things very slow, careful steps, but the fact she missed him nailed home that this relationship might work.

So he didn’t notice the bird wing-light pressure on his scalp at first.

He felt it suddenly when a set of fingers caught in his hair, a tangled spot along his crown. The touch couldn’t even be described as gentle. It could have been a breath of wind caused by someone’s passing or his head brushing something.

It was barely there. A ghost of someone’s hand.

_ Not _ the last one out, then.

He glanced up and his gut swooped.

Ed stood over him, the man’s hand already retracted, also texting. He thumbed at his lip and the angle cast a shadow over the already dark undersides of his eyes.

Spike’s wide eyes clouded. “Ed? You okay?”

Ed jerked to attention, as though Spike had the audacity to startle _him_.

“Fine. Why?” Then Ed scowled at himself and didn’t give Spike a chance to answer. “It’s Friday, Spike. Get out of here.”

Spike did exactly that. He drove to Sam and Jules’ house to watch the puck drop.

But he did it all without seeing, without fully being a part of it. Still caught up in seriously trying to tell if he imagined the blink-or-it’s-gone sensation. 

* * *

“Y’know…I get that we’re Canadian and some of you grew up in the Prairies—but even _I _think this is too cold for a barbecue.”

Nobody seemed to agree with Greg’s sentiment, least of all the children, frolicking around with Sadie in her stroller on the Wordsworth family’s back lawn.

The team snickered at Greg, his nose red and bald head hidden by a toque.

“Seriously,” he insisted, clapping Wordy’s back on the way by his manning of the grill. He climbed down the deck steps. “It’s November, people.”

“_Early _November,” Ed corrected.

Sam handed Greg a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and tapped his own against it. “Best time for a barbecue.”

“No snow,” Spike added, though he buried his own cold nose in the collar of his windbreaker. He had his hands buried in his jeans, numb from the crisp air. Greg threw him a wry look like he could see straight through that.

Only Jules, in a thin, long sleeved shirt and sandals, didn’t seem to feel the cold. She hugged Greg. “Look who showed up! Nice to have you, boss.”

Greg rolled his eyes over Jules’ shoulder to another round of laughter at his expense. “What do I have to do to get you all to stop calling me boss?”

“Yeah.” Ed put the hand not holding Izzy on his hip. “That’s my title.”

“Mmm.” Leah made a rocking motion with her hand. “Pretty sure you’re just Ed.”

A chatter of Sophie and Shelley’s laughter had the team covering their own.

“Not _just_ Ed,” said Leah. Backtracking. “You’re our boss, of course. And a great one at that. Just that you’re also…”

Sophie walked over to kiss her husband on the cheek. “Ed. Boss is Greg’s title.”

Spike held a hand out to her. “Finally, someone gets it.”

Izzy wanted in on the love and gave her father’s ear a slobbery kiss. Ed chuckled but they didn’t buy it, especially when the man melted and pecked her nose.

He set her down. “Go show Sam how to punt that ball.”

“Ba!” she crowed. She wobbled on her pudgy legs, covered in pink leggings underneath a marshmallow coat. A giraffe hat sat atop her crown of fuzz.

Spike expected an eye roll and something about how hockey was the superior sport, but Sam’s eyes lit up. He crouched down, slapping his knees to get the toddler’s attention. “It’ll be nice to play with a baby that can actually walk.”

She spotted him. Cue grabby hands. “Sam!”

Jules canted her head while the others laughed. “She’s better at our names than some of the HR guys.”

Predictably, though it somehow still surprised Spike, Greg found a way to get him semi-alone by the deck. Then again, maybe everyone else was just in on the ruse.

“How’re things with Winnie?”

“How is Dean enjoying the Academy?” Spike shot back.

Greg indulged him, even more shocking. “Quite a lot, since I’m not teaching any of his classes. Just wait ‘til he enrolls in more advanced stuff with me. _Then_ you’ll be getting the angry phone calls.”

Spike smiled into his coffee. “I’m already getting the angry phone calls.”

“Wait.” Greg’s eyes widened. “You are? He only ever tells me how great it is to have his freedom and to be learning ‘cool stuff.’ Or so he puts it.”

Spike shook his head. “I think he wants to make sure you’re worry-free.”

“Too late,” Greg muttered.

“It’s nothing big.” Spike hoped he came off reassuring. “Just that your son is…well, he’s the youngest in the dorm, boss. Some of the older kids feel they can push him around and take the better bunk. Stuff like that.”

Greg drew up to his full height and even though that wasn’t as tall as some on the team, he still managed to cow Spike whenever he did it. Fury crackled in his eyes.

Spike held up his hands, even the paper cup. “Crisis averted, boss. Stop freaking out. I went over there to give them a piece of my mind but Clark beat me to it. Literally.”

Here, Ed inserted himself. He spoke around a mouthful of burger, fresh off the grill. “Literally?”

Spike nodded, smile widening. “I came just in time to see him punch a senior student halfway down the hall. Dean was yelling for him to stop but I think he was vaguely grateful. Either way, no more phone calls about bullies.”

Greg sighed in relief and Ed’s brows shot up.

“Those self defense lessons came in handy after all,” he said. “Also, how did Clark get all the way over there? He doesn’t have a car.”

“Oh.” Spike took a sip of coffee to get away from the two men’s keen eyes. “I thought you knew. I drive Clark to visit Dean and vice versa every Friday.”

Ed nearly spit out his burger. As it was, Greg was the one flushed and slack jawed. The two old friends exchanged incredulous looks.

“And when were you planning on telling us this?” Ed demanded.

Spike shrugged. “You never asked.”

Greg spluttered but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Secrets between brothers, huh?”

Spike had no idea what he meant, having grown up an only child, but he held his cup aloft. “Let it be known—Scarlatti ain’t no snitch. Besides, I thought they’d both told you already.”

Ed huffed, which set Greg off again. He clapped Ed on the back, calming some of the mulish set in his eyes. Then Greg ruffled Spike’s hair for good measure, a rough and messy gesture that only made Greg grin wider when Spike slapped his hand.

He was so distracted in shoving Greg away that he didn’t notice the tug on his shirt at first. It was a wobbly touch, a pressure that could be ignored as the wind.

However, the high-pitched “Mutad, ‘Ike?” could not.

Spike glanced down to see Izzy waver on her fleece clad legs. Twin pigtails poked out of her hat where the giraffe’s ‘horns’ would be. Her eyes were dead set on Spike.

Having rarely been the intent fixation of a toddler, he found himself startled for a moment. In the background, he registered stifled chuckles (Greg and Wordy) and a coo (Jules).

“Uh. Hey, lil’ lady.” His palm dwarfed her head when he passed over it. Her blond ringlets felt like a fuzzy peach. “What’s up?”

Izzy held up a cut-in-half hot dog in her free hand, the one not clenched in Spike’s sweater. It was barren of any topping. Then she pointed to a bottle on the picnic table next to them.

“Mutad.”

Spike’s brow cleared, though he was puzzled that she had not gone to her father for help, standing right there. “Ah. You want some mustard on it?”

She nodded sagely. “Pwease, Miss’r Fiss-it.”

Here, Spike looked to Ed for help.

It was Ed’s turn to laugh, however much he too tried to cover it up. “She wondered where I go everyday and what our job is. We’ve been discussing how everyone on the team has a special set of skills. You’re—”

“Fiss-it ‘Ike!”

Spike raised a wry brow. “So I’ve been demoted to handyman, huh? Mister Fix-It?”

“I can’t very well explain to an eighteen month old what you _actually_ do!”

“Why not? Sure you can.” And Spike meant it. Patronizing kids was never acceptable in his book. He reached over Izzy’s head for the mustard and set down his coffee in one smooth switch. “Izzy, don’t listen to Papa. I defuse bombs for a living.”

The adults all groaned but this only set Greg off more. Sam was grinning too.

Izzy lit up. “B’ms!”

Spike made an explosion sound and used his hands for emphasis. “We don’t want those. Bombs bad.”

“Uh-huh.” Izzy nodded along. “Bad bobs.”

“Look at that,” Wordy piped up from the grill. “She’s practically an EOD already.”

Spike rolled his eyes but played along. “I’ll be out of a job pretty soon.”

Izzy giggled at his antics even if she didn’t know what they meant. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike watched a funny look pass over Greg’s face, one he couldn’t read. A slight lilting around the corner of his eyes and a downturn of his lips that warred with the tightening of his cheeks.

Spike shook himself. “Better get this hot dog some mustard. Stat.”

“Stat!” Izzy parroted, deciding she very much liked this new word. She forfeited her hot dog to Spike for ‘fixing.’ “Stat, stat, stat!”

Greg moved out of the way so Spike could sit on the second-from-the-grass step of the deck. Izzy, in her drunken little stagger, followed Spike by shifting her hand from his sweater to his sleeve.

When she removed it completely, Spike thought maybe she’d finally clued in that this was a ‘Papa job.’ But then her sticky fingers closed around his on the bottle. Two hands around his one.

Spike paused, hot dog in one hand, mustard and child’s grip in the other. “What’s up, Iz? Change your mind?”

She shook her head. “Mutad!”

“Yes, this is mustard. Very good.”

Ed and Greg threw each other another fond glance. Spike found himself fighting with a sudden bout of shyness, though he couldn’t say why, especially as he hadn’t dealt with one in years. He forced himself to keep his eyes up, no blushing.

It clicked. “You want to do it yourself?”

Izzy chirped and babbled off something too fast for Spike to catch. But she looked excited. Score one.

“Okay. Here. You squeeze and I’ll hold the hot dog. How does that sound?”

Izzy agreed to these terms with a nod. Spike shook the mustard bottle a few times to get it ready and then handed it to Izzy. She had to hold it in both palms and even then it threatened to slip. It was nearly as tall as her head.

She seemed fascinated by the nozzle at the end. She closed one eye to squint inside.

Sam, naturally, caught the danger first. His eyes widened. “Careful—!”

Too late.

With a gurgle, a giant glob erupted right onto Izzy’s face, thankfully missing her eye. She blinked, not sure what to make of this shocking development and the cold liquid over her forehead. Yellow dripped down the bridge of her nose.

Then she looked to Spike. “Fiss it?”

“Sure, honey, I can fix it.” Spike reached over…

SPLAT!

A more generous spray dotted all across Spike’s temples and into his hair. Like Izzy, all he could do for a moment was blink, his long lashes creating _more _mustard lines across his cheeks.

The adults roared. Spike released his scrunched up nose and couldn’t help joining in.

“Well, at least we know she’s got your sense of aim. Right, Ed?” Spike glanced to his right. But where Ed had been standing seconds before was now empty. “Ed?”

Spike looked wildly around but the older sniper was gone. This seemed odd, that he would leave his child right after she’d made a mess of herself.

Sophie whisked onto the scene. She didn’t looked miffed at all. “Don’t worry, Spike. This is practically a Lane family tradition. Clark did the very same thing at his first team barbecue. Except his was a bottle of _mayonnaise_.”

“Ooo. Ouch.” Spike grimaced while helping Sophie wipe the toddler off. “That stuff stinks.”

“Stin’s,” Izzy agreed.

“Yeah.” Spike grinned at her. “Now we match! But I think all this mustard would taste better _on _your hot dog.”

He squeezed some out for her and she stuck the whole dog in her mouth to another round of snickers. Leah handed Spike a wet towel. He gratefully rubbed the mustard off, feeling its speckles along his scar.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught Greg sliding open the porch door. The faint outline of another man revealed Ed, hands braced on the kitchen counter and head bowed.

Sophie tweaked her daughter’s nose. “What do we say, Izzy?”

The girl opened her mouth to reveal half-chewed meat and the tiny nubs of her teeth. “Tank-oo!”

“You’re welcome.” Spike tried to muster a smile. He swallowed and his voice came out floaty, absent. “So very welcome…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident with Izzy is actually based on a real experience. Only it was ketchup a toddler sprayed in my face! Good times.
> 
> Also, are you really a Canadian if you don't have a fall/winter barbecue every year? What a strange ritual we northern humans enjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed’s breath mingled with mortar spraying off the brick wall where both bullets hit not three inches from his cheek.
> 
> The sniper’s blue eyes were brighter than the colourless sky. More turquoise than the cover of the marine biology book Spike was currently reading, on his coffee table at home.
> 
> Eyes that were completely serene. Calm. Blank.
> 
> “Ed! Get down!”
> 
> Ed didn’t move at all.

Hour two meant snacks. Now that it was hour _four_, that would require something more substantial. Greg was proud of himself for knowing this and having his response time down to an art.

_Ding!_

The oven alerted him that the nachos were done. Dean bounded into the kitchen—

And right on time, too.

“Hey, Dad.”

Greg slipped on an oven mitt and pulled the Dorito-barbecue-chicken nachos out. Dean eyed them with the dewy eyed gaze of a new parent.

“How goes the Smash Brothers tournament?” Greg asked, because that metaphor was a rabbit hole he didn’t want to fall down.

Dean sighed, dramatic. “I’m losing.”

“For the third straight year in a row!”

“Because someone is cheating!” Dean shouted back down the hall.

“It’s not cheating if you suck.”

“No, but it is if you shove my controller every time I start to win!”

Clark muttered something from the living room, a vulgar word that Greg preferred to pretend he didn’t hear.

Greg wanted to be sarcastic, but he was just too thrilled that exams were over and the boys were home. Now they could decorate for Christmas. Greg had hardly slept last night, hearing Dean sleep in the next room over for the first time since September.

Needless to say, the excitement hadn’t died yet.

Then Dean got quiet. He leaned his elbows on the counter, decided that wasn’t comfortable enough, and shifted so his ribs leaned, facing his father.

Greg waited him out. He scooped nachos on two paper plates. Then he fired off a quick text to Ed that Clark was having Sunday supper at his house. Did nachos count as supper food?

“Hey, Dad?”

This time it was a question.

Though it was spoken in total seriousness, that new facet of maturity Greg hadn’t gotten used to seeing yet, there was an undercurrent more reminiscent of a young child.

An undercurrent Greg hadn’t heard in years.

The oven mitt was off in record time. He put down the spatula. “What’s wrong, son?”

“N-no. Nothing’s wrong, I just…”

Greg shifted forward to cup his son’s cheek. Dean let him, leaning into it a little.

“What was Spike’s father like?”

Blindsided. Thrown for a loop. Baffled. Take your pick of cliché, for Greg was all of them.

Greg’s hand dropped and his mouth worked. He settled on, “Why do you want to know?”

“He talks about his mom a lot, when family comes up in the car.” Dean shrugged one shoulder. “But whenever I ask about his dad, he won’t say a word. Just that they ‘didn’t see eye to eye,’ whatever that means.”

Greg scoffed before he could stop himself. “Ha. Understatement.”

“Understatement?” Dean didn’t miss a thing, eyes sharp. “What was he like?”

Mulling over how to answer this, Greg circled a hand. “I think Spike is trying to protect you.”

“Was he really that bad?”

Greg hesitated. “No, not in the Hollywood-ized way some fathers are portrayed. He didn’t beat Spike or starve him or anything over the top like that.”

“But?”

It took effort to get his voice working again. Greg rubbed at his chin and then finally made eye contact with Dean. “You have to understand, the Scarlatti family didn’t have much, especially when they lived in Italy. They came here to have a better life, to start over.”

“O-kay…so they were poor.” Dean said it as if stating a scientific fact, no judgement.

Greg nodded. “At first, yeah.”

He could see by the darting of Dean’s eyes and a little crinkle on the left side of his nose that he didn’t fully connect these dots. A hard lump in Greg’s gut melted, caramel soft for his son.

“Dean, sometimes men who’ve fallen on hard times, they can’t see past that hand-to-mouth need to succeed, to have money and food and other resources. You follow me?”

“…No,” Dean confessed, looking sheepish about it.

Greg squeezed the back of his neck with a smile. “That’s okay. I think Spike would rather you didn’t. It’s…”

“Complicated?”

“Something like that.” Greg blew out a tense breath. “Spike chose his profession for moral reasons, to make the world a better place. Mr. Scarlatti didn’t understand that. In his mind, the more money you make, the better the job. Morality is a luxury that has nothing to do with it.”

A tiny flicker of understanding sparked in Dean’s eyes. It grew when Greg paused and Dean had time to rake this around in his mind.

“So…” Dean spoke slowly. “He made Spike feel like a failure for wanting to help people.”

“That’s a very simplified way of putting it, but you’re on the right track.”

If anything, Dean’s brow drew tighter, stormier.

Greg’s voice dropped to a soft murmur. “Dean, have you heard of emotional or psychological abuse?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know how it plays out?”

This time, Dean hesitated. “Sort of. It’s making someone feel like they have to earn love, or playing with their emotions. Some people use intimidation.”

Greg’s brows shot up. “You’re closer than you realize. Good job.”

“That means…” Dean paled. “Spike’s father did those things?”

“I think, in Mr. Scarlatti’s mind, he did those things out of love. Deep down, he didn’t want to see Spike get hurt at this job, either physically or because he couldn’t afford a better life.”

With a scowl, Dean crossed his arms. “Yeah, but manipulating someone isn’t the way to show that.”

Greg hummed his agreement. He regarded his son intently for a moment and marveled again that Spike had been right all along—Dean would make a fantastic cop.

“Dad?” Dean’s voice, if possible, sounded even smaller, younger. “What exactly did Mr. Scarlatti do to Spike?”

Heavy, dragged from his heart, Greg sighed. “That’s a question only Spike gets to answer.”

“But you know the details.”

“I do, of course. It isn’t my place to tell. If Spike wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

Dean, though visibly disheartened, nodded in resignation.

Greg tweaked his nose, just like Sophie always did to Izzy. “Besides, you have a job to do: go defend the Parker family honour by kicking Clark’s butt.”

“Hey!”

Dean smiled at Clark’s protests. “Otherwise you’ll have to hear about it at work tomorrow?”

“Now you’ve got the right idea!”

At the kitchen threshold, Dean turned back one last time. “Is it that bad? What Spike lived through?”

Greg didn’t move for a moment. He gazed at a photo on the fridge, of Spike and Sam asleep in a pair of lawn chairs, surrounded by fireflies at their camping trip. They looked painfully _young_.

It struck him, not for the first time, that Ed, Greg, and Wordy were all nearly old enough to be their fathers.

The lump in Greg’s throat reduced his voice to a whisper. “If you want to sleep tonight—you don’t want to know.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

* * *

Spike frowned. “Say again?”

Ben, the dispatcher on replacement until Winnie returned, patiently complied: “_A little boy was spotted wandering around the gang district. Said something to the citizen who phoned it in about a gun._”

Spike turned to squint at Ed in the driver’s seat. He looked just as confused.

“Is he injured?” Spike asked.

“_Not exactly. But there are lines on his arms like he’d been tied up._”

Ed flicked the siren. “We’re on our way, Ben. Tell the citizen and the kid to stay put. Call in EMS.”

“_You got it._”

Ed put a hand to his headset. “Team One, keep patrolling. Spike and I are just checking out a suspicious call.”

Leah piped up in their ears. “_Let us know if you need backup_.”

“Will do.”

“Sounds like the action is over,” Spike added. “We’ll probably just be taking statements.”

Ed zoomed through a stoplight. “My favourite kind of call.”

Except when they got there, no adults were in sight. _Nobody_ was in sight.

The buildings went from the gleaming silver near Dundas Square to run down, graffitied, and decrepit. People eyed the cops from under angry brows and piercings and gang tattoos, some even Spike didn’t recognize.

Soon, these people too faded away.

Ed parked and had his side arm out in a heartbeat. The deserted street set both their teeth on edge. “Got a funny feeling about this one.”

“This is the spot,” Spike confirmed, checking his PDA again to be sure. “Should be right down this alley.”

Sure enough, the sounds of a child crying filtered from behind a dumpster in the alley. Ed was about to barge right in, but Spike held him back with a hand to his bicep.

“You’ll scare him,” he whispered.

Ed blinked, glanced at his gun, and nodded.

Spike forced himself to relax his hard stance and crouched down, approaching the dumpster bent over. “Anybody home?”

Though almost mid-December, there was no snow on the ground. A fact Spike was thankful for. It was odd for the time of year, but it helped in situations like this.

His breath puffed out in the crisp air, joining another tiny cloud behind the dumpster.

“There you are.” Spike brightened. He tried on a disarming smile when a little boy peeked out from behind skinned hands. “My name is Spike. I’m here to help.”

Clad only in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, the little boy looked like he’d been dragged from his bed. He trembled, dark eyes huge and wondering on Spike. He was wedged between the brick wall and the tilted dumpster where it created a corner.

“You wanna tell me your name?”

The boy bit his lip. “Papi says not to talk to cops.”

Spike rocked back on his heels. “He does? But we’re here to make sure you’re safe. That can’t be so bad, right?”

Considering this, the boy nodded. “You are nice cop.”

Spike smiled at his jilted accent, Mexican by the sounds of it. “I sure hope so. Wouldn’t be good at my job if I wasn’t now, would I?”

The boy tapped his chest. “Ethan.”

“Ethan!” Spike crawled further into the space. “That’s a great name!”

“I’m five,” said Ethan, in that unprompted way of young children. “I just start kindergarten.”

“Oh? That’s exciting.” Spike kept chattering to examine ligature marks around the boy’s wrists. Bungee cords, judging by the stretch burns. “Do you like it?”

“Mhmm! Is your name really Spike?”

“Nah.” Spike winked. “It’s a nickname. But I like it better than Michelangelo.”

Ethan clapped his hands. “Like the turtle!”

Ed coughed, making Spike deeply wish he could throw him a rude gesture. He settled for rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. That’s what everyone says. So how’d you get here, Ethan?”

Ethan’s grin dropped. He edged closer to Spike with a whimper. Instinctively, Spike snapped out an arm and scooped him close. Ethan shivered, prompting Spike to whip off his range jacket and tuck it around the boy. His shivering slowed.

“The evil ones took me away and put me here. Had big gun.”

A red flag shot up in Spike’s mind. Ethan was too nicely groomed for a kid in this neighbourhood, yet he knew the kind of place he was in.

Ed didn’t invade their little sanctuary, but his head appeared over Spike’s shoulder. “Evil ones?”

Ethan leaned in closer, like he was telling a huge secret. Spike mirrored the action. “You promise you won’t tell them I told you?”

Spike put his free hand—his right—over his heart. “I, Spike Scarlatti, do solemnly swear.”

This seemed to satisfy Ethan. “The _Cortez_ soldiers. They had cobras on their chests.”

A shiver wormed down Spike’s back. Ed’s sharp breath matched his own, and both met each other’s eyes with a look of dread.

Suddenly all the pieces fit.

“Ethan,” Spike asked, making sure to speak clearly. “Your papi does business in this area, right?”

Ethan nodded.

“Is…” Spike licked his lips. “Is your last name Montego?”

Ethan bobbed his head. “That’s me! Ethan Montego.”

_Bad. Badbadbadbadbad._

Spike didn’t have time to freak out over this rival gang war they’d apparently stumbled into. He dearly wanted to.

But the crack of a high powered rifle exploded into the alleyway. And then another one.

It was one of those moments Spike looked back on when he got older, one of those times he couldn’t capture or explain to other people no matter how hard he tried.

There was an airy, dance-like quality as adrenaline reduced the passing of time to sludge. Maybe this was how ballerinas felt, pirouette carrying them in a dizzy rush while their eyes ‘spotted,’ locked on a fixed point.

A graceful tail spin.

Ed’s breath mingled with mortar spraying off the brick wall where both bullets hit not three inches from his cheek.

The sniper’s blue eyes were brighter than the colourless sky. More turquoise than the cover of the marine biology book Spike was currently reading, on his coffee table at home.

Eyes that were completely serene. Calm. Blank.

But this wasn’t what shocked Spike—

It’s that those eyes were locked on Spike.

There was an _active shooter—_“ACTIVE SHOOTER! Need backup!” Spike screamed into his mic for good measure—but Ed only stared at Spike. Totally unblinking. Even when a third round sprayed his ear.

“Ed! Get down!”

Ed didn’t move at all.

Spike shoved Ethan back and darted out, snagging a fistful of Ed’s Kevlar and _yanking _him down behind the dumpster.

Spike breathed hard but Ed didn’t, like he’d gone deaf in the ten seconds since this all went to hell. Spike yelled to be heard over the incessant sniper fire.

“Ed! See those red electrical stickers on the wall? I think we tripped something!”

Nothing. No response.

Feeling a thorn of real fear, Spike tucked his body around Ethan but kept poking Ed.

“There’s no person up on the rooftop across from us. It’s like the arena shooting. Automatic. The rifle should run out of bullets pretty soon and we can move.”

Sure enough, the hail of gunfire ceased after a minute.

Ethan’s soft weeping, combined with approaching sirens, sent Spike’s stomach into a nauseous roll. He trembled a little himself.

It was this jittering against Ed’s arm that woke him up. Tuned to Spike’s distress, he returned with a jolt.

“I see them,” were the first words out of his mouth.

Spike followed his eyes to a fire escape across from them, where two youth jumped down three at a time. Tattoo cobras wound around their collars and down their chests.

Both men shot to their feet, Spike slowed by the child in his arms. He passed Ethan off to a waiting EMT across the street—“Be good, kid!” and “Thank you, Senor Turtle!”—then shunted Ed away from the SUV. “I’m driving.”

Ed didn’t argue, hopping into the passenger’s seat.

The Cortez’s beater car squealed away from the curb in a haze of smoke and Spike pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Ed was back in leader mode. He brought the radio to his lips, the coil of cord swinging when Spike banked a sharp turn. “I need an all-points bulletin out to Team One and any cruisers in the area. I have a navy, late model GT, no hubcaps, fleeing a kidnapping and attempted murder. Be advised they are armed and dangerous.”

Ed paused in a rare fit of emotion, back of his hand to his lips. Spike didn’t dare take his eyes any more off the road, already going at dangerous speeds, but he was dumbfounded to his core at the ashen cast of Ed’s skin.

Another turn! Spike threw the wheel to the left. The two men swayed.

It happened so fast that Spike didn’t have time to wonder, and the pressure wasn’t faint this time, even squeezing a little.

Spike didn’t look at Ed. Didn’t need to—the hand on his crown said enough. Ed removed it briefly to whip off his glove using his teeth, now bare skin against the thick folds of Spike’s hair.

The sensation was weirdly grounding. Spike didn’t let himself dwell on it too much.

“We are in pursuit but we need a roadblock as soon as possible! Team One, you’re with me. Leah, Jules, cut them off at the overpass.”

Ed’s voice gave nothing away, rock steady. Ready for anything. A bolt of normalcy and staid assurance in the chaos.

The hand in Spike’s hair, however, didn’t stop shaking for nearly twenty minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed rubbed a hand down his face and marched out.
> 
> They all stood there, gaping.
> 
> Spike’s heart beat fast. What did he do wrong this time?

Greg expected a lot of things in this world:

Taxes. Global warming. That his favourite team would win the Stanley Cup again this year. Angry phone calls from his ex-wife when he let Dean try tequila for the first time. Snow storms.

He did not expect a knock on his front door at nine on a Saturday morning.

_Maybe I am getting sloppy. Soft._

This was Greg's first thought when said knock made him jump.

_We’ll call it good reflexes. Yeah, that sounds better._

He pushed away from the kitchen table and his lesson planning for the week. It took a moment to lumber to his feet and limp down the hall. But whoever was at the door didn’t knock again, patient.

_Someone who knows me well, then_.

Sure enough, Ed’s face greeted him when he opened the door. Something else he didn’t expect.

“Hey!”

“Hey…What’s up, Ed? It’s a gorgeous day. I figured you’d be out with the kids.”

Ed smiled. “Heard you were _still_ remodelling that bathroom and, well…” He pointed to Greg’s cane. “Figured you could use all the help you can get.”

And with that, he shouldered past Greg and up the stairs.

Greg blinked. He looked from the open doorway to the retreating form of his friend. “Good to see you too, Eddie. No, no! Come on in. I insist.”

Ed was even dressed in old work clothes and paint-speckled jeans.

Greg followed his lead and left to change. When he came back, Ed had both hands on his hips, doing an inspection circuit of the bathroom.

“This really is outdated.”

“Hence my desperation to renovate, especially before Marina comes to live here.”

Ed turned to grin at him. “Still being old fashioned about it?”

“Et tu, Eddie? It just feels weird to have her come live here until we’re married.”

“And when, exactly—?”

A dopey expression stole over Greg’s features, softening them. He couldn’t help it. Just the thought of that woman made him happy. “Christmas Eve. Thought it might be a nice gift.”

Ed clapped his arm. “She’ll love it, Greg. Congrats. You went with the one Spike recommended?”

_Not exactly Spike, but_…

“You bet. She doesn’t like pink very much; don’t know what I was thinking.”

“The yellow diamond’s perfect for her.”

“Mmm.” Greg’s eyes narrowed. Ed looked perfectly at ease, relaxed on his Saturday off. Body language open.

Greg knew better.

He threw a hefty piece of sandpaper at Ed. “I’ve been meaning to get the wallpaper border off for weeks. Start scraping.”

Ed did so without complaint. In fact, he looked relieved to be given something to do with his hands. Greg pulled up a stool from the den and got to work drilling in a towel rack next to the sink.

“Empty house today?” Ed asked.

“Mira’s in town for one day only. Not sure this long distance thing is working, but Dean was excited to see her.”

Ed’s sanding paused. “Long distance?”

“Mira went to Dalhousie in Nova Scotia.”

“Ah,” said Ed, knowing inflection matching Greg’s raised brow. “That’s tough. Sophie and I dealt with that a bit when we were first dating. I was at the Academy while she was studying at Waterloo.”

“I’ll let Dean know that,” said Greg, earnest. “Might encourage him to hear it _can_ be done.”

Ed hummed a noise of assent and they fell quiet. Greg could have put the towel rack up in under five minutes. But he took his time, trying to get a read on why Ed had bully marched into his house to help renovate his bathroom.

The only clue Greg got, physically, was a sheen of sweat on Ed’s brow. A suspicious occurrence, considering he ran laps for fun and the wallpaper peeled right off without fight.

Greg said nothing. He headed downstairs for coffee and returned with only one mug, which Ed accepted with a simple nod of thanks.

Sitting back on the stool, Greg watched his friend sand away. Ed diligently removed it from one wall, then another, then the one next to Greg.

He was on such a roll that Greg had him prime the far wall in preparation for Marina’s sea foam green paint. Greg loved it because it matched her name.

Greg stole a sip of Ed’s coffee. “You still seeing that psychologist?”

“Yeah.” Ed didn’t miss a beat, voice mellow. “She’s good. Really good.”

Good. Why did everybody use good? What a non-word.

And that was that.

Sometime around lunch, when Greg was coming back up the stairs with a plate of sandwiches, it was to the sight of Ed frozen, hand hovering over a speckled spot on the wall.

Greg almost made a joke about it. Then he closed his mouth, watching the eerie calm settle in ruts around Ed’s eyes.

He’d never seen anything quite like it on his friend before.

By the time Greg stirred, Ed had snapped out of it, rolling white primer along the dry wall.

Greg set the plate down. “You doing alright, Eddie?”

“Greg.” Ed laughed, glancing up from his crouch. “I really, truly just came over to help you renovate this white whale of a bathroom.”

Greg nodded. “Good. That’s…good.”

_Goodgoodgood._

* * *

“You got ‘em to talk?” Spike walked up to the one-way glass. “That’s amazing!”

If Wordy had feathers, they’d be puffing. His smug grin didn’t fade an inch. “They caved after only two hours of interrogation. Gave each other up if we promised to put them in witness protection. They were terrified of the plan, really. Hence their rookie mistake of staying to see if said plan worked.”

Spike snorted. “Which it didn’t. Those motion stickers weren’t lined up properly to hit a target approaching the dumpster.”

“Tell me about it. Our team rookie could do better.”

“How’s Ethan?”

“Ethan’s fine,” said Wordy. “He’ll be in Child Services custody for a while but he’s a trooper. Luis Montego’s finally being investigated for the drug running. He might be a dealer, but murder’s too far for him—that’s a Cortez trade mark. Ethan kept asking me to thank a nice man, ‘Mr. Turtle.’ Took all the great minds at Guns ‘n Gangs to put that one together.”

Spike smiled.

“You want your jacket back?”

Spike shook his head. “Tell Ethan it’s his.”

Jules joined them at the window. “Let me get this straight: Remi Cortez got two newbie underlings to _kidnap_ his rival’s, Luis Montego’s, son at gunpoint and plant him for Luis to find so they could assassinate him when he came to the rescue?”

“Using an automatic hunting rifle set up,” Spike reminded.

Jules huffed a sound of protest. “So who called us? Who was our concerned citizen?”

“I can answer that.” Ed appeared with a sheet of fax paper. “Ben finally managed to trace the call to a payphone near the site. The voice belonged to one Remi Cortez.”

Spike shook his head. “They called in their own crime. Unbelievable.”

“Maybe not,” said Ed. “Turns out Luis Montego has stayed one step ahead of us by listening to police frequencies. They wanted him to hear the call.”

“Why not just send Luis a threatening video message of his son tied up with a location to lure him out?” Jules demanded, still disbelieving.

“He would have known that was a trap,” Wordy reasoned. His eyes studied the two Cortez underlings fidgeting at an interrogation table. “By calling it in, it seemed unrelated. Or maybe he _did_ realize it was a trap and let you guys show up in his place.”

“Great.” Spike’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Better to let us be corrugated by gunfire than him, right? Sheesh. His son was in that alley! He was risking Ethan’s life too!”

Ed was strangely silent.

Sam jogged over, coat half on. “What are you still doing here—shift is over! Let’s go!”

Jules pulled out two tickets. “Rink side, baby! I can’t believe we got tickets this close to playoffs!”

Spike groaned. He too held up a pair of tickets. “Winnie’s staying an extra few days. Wordy, you wanna come?”

“Very generous,” said Wordy with an affectionate squeeze of the younger man’s shoulder. “But Shelley and I have dinner reservations.”

“Ed?” Spike turned to his team leader. “Whadaya say? A burger, watching the puck drop with five thousand other people?”

Ed angled his head. “I appreciate it, but the arena’s a no for me.”

If Spike didn’t know any better, he’d say the older man was clammy. He looked grey under the fluorescent station lights.

“Oh please,” Spike wheedled.

“Spike—”

“It’ll be fun. When was the last time you kicked back and didn’t worry about diapers? Isn’t Sophie away, visiting her sist—”

“I said _no_, Spike!”

Ed’s shout actually sent a lurch, a tiny one, through Spike’s body. He forced himself not to take a step back. The other three eyed Ed in amazement.

Ed rubbed a hand down his face and marched out.

They all stood there, gaping.

Spike’s heart beat fast. _What did you do wrong this time?_

He shifted to follow Ed, to make things right. A gentle hand on Spike’s chest stopped him.

Wordy’s eyes were concerned and warm. “Give him some space, squirt. I think Ed’s better left alone for now.”

Squirt. Wordy hadn’t called him that in years. Way back when he’d been rookie of this team, the wide-eyed, too-young kid who couldn’t get it right. 

It only fueled Spike’s worry. Had he botched something? Was this about not spotting the stickers in time to get Ethan safely out? Was Spike seeking him out too much now that Greg was gone? Had he worn out some sort of leeway period?

“Come on, Spike.” Jules had to tug at Spike’s wrist a few times to get him moving. Her voice was filled with forced cheer. “Let’s go see if Leah wants your extra ticket. I bet she’ll love it!”

Spike let himself be led away. Eyes still fixed on the doorway where Ed disappeared.

He wondered if this pirouette would end in him falling.

Maybe…maybe he’d wiped out a long time ago and was only realizing it now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sick?” Wordy asked carefully. His eyes narrowed. “Ed isn’t sick, bud.”
> 
> Ethan shook his head. “His eyes no move, even when it started.” Ethan mimicked the gunfire in loud popping sounds. “He go really still.”
> 
> Greg knew it before he said it. “Ed froze up.”

Despite this episode, it _kept happening_.

Spike had no description for what it was and, for reasons incomprehensible, didn’t want to tell anyone about it. It felt private, sacrosanct.

Except this time was different. This time Ed wasn’t on his phone or looking over reports or fiddling with his hat in the other hand.

This time when Ed’s right hand landed in Spike’s hair—_always the right; why is that?—_his eyes were too bright and looking directly at Spike. His lips trembled.

Spike’s hands paused around the laces of his Chucks. Again, he was seated on the bench and Ed stood over him.

Both were still. Spike closed his eyes.

The weight of Ed’s hand rested fully on Spike’s head by increments, so gradual that it created a weightless sensation. The sniper’s thumb traced circles on Spike’s left temple and a patch of callous rubbed across his bullet scar.

Spike’s breath caught.

There’s was something unspeakable, seraphic about that: the marks on Ed’s skin caused by countless hours of shooting touching the scar that would never heal, created by a rogue gunman.

The locker room was dead still. Everyone had gone home at the end of this long week, even Sam’s Team Three.

The air should have been stale, as it always was. It should have smelled of sweaty gear and gunpowder.

But Spike finally inhaled a breath—and it smelled like rain. Like the hallowed air inside of a cathedral when the windows have been left open for a few hours, all musty wood and earth and dank.

Spike inhaled a breath and it felt thin. They were high up, floating away.

The weightless sensation pulsed stronger until Spike felt only the oxygen in his lungs and Ed’s hand on his head. Fingers smoothed back. Started again at the front. Trickled their way through in foamy waves.

Tears pricked Spike’s closed lids when the waves crested inside his chest.

He inhaled again and it stuttered. Spike opened his eyes, startled. He had no idea what was happening.

“Sshh.” The noise was too hushed if they hadn’t been standing so close. But Ed blinked back his own tears. “_Spike_.”

Spike exhaled an even shakier breath. The sound seemed to upset Ed, who shuffled closer.

For the first time in this weird month of ubiquitous head touches and cold shoulders, Spike leaned into the hand. It halted with a shuddery flex. Ed froze.

Spike had only milliseconds to be embarrassed until Ed pressed again. The weight of that hand held Spike upright for a giddy, strung out minute.

“Ed?”

“Sshh. I’m here.”

Spike felt the slightest quiver in Ed’s palm. He ran his finger through Spike’s hair and down again, the rolling heath of brunette locks damp from the day’s exertion.

“You’re safe,” said Ed.

Spike got the impression that Ed was trying _desperately_ to keep himself from drowning. To convince himself.

How long they stayed that way, Spike would never know. At some point, his eyes had closed again, lulled by the tender motions. His scalp and forehead were warm from the friction, so much so that he didn’t notice Ed had stopped until he opened his eyes.

The sniper was long gone.

* * *

“You know you didn’t have to come with me.”

“Of course I did. Had to meet the bravest kid on the West side.”

Wordy shot Greg a fond look while ringing the doorbell of a posh, three story home. Badly played piano and thudding sounded from behind the door. It could only be described as cacophonous—but happy.

Happy was the key.

“I read the report,” said Wordy, subdued all of a sudden. “Is Spike okay? He saved both their lives.”

Greg thought about the strange behaviour of both men. “I think so. Has Ed said anything to you?”

“No, but he yelled at Spike the other day. Nearly gave him—and us—a heart attack.”

The acidic feeling of dread pooled in Greg’s stomach. It lined up with what he’d been observing. That, however, didn’t make it any easier to hear and it only fueled the need to keep a close eye on them both.

“We never shout at Spike,” Wordy continued. “It’s practically an unwritten SRU rule, even when he was a rookie. Not with his background. He’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

_Tell me about it_.

Before Greg could overthink himself into a spiral, the door opened to reveal a trim woman in a pencil skirt and heels. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Delacourt?” Wordy extended his hand. “I’m Officer Wordsworth. We spoke on the phone?”

“Oh yes!” She lit up, pumping his hand. “You’re here to check on Ethan for CS. Right this way. Please, come in. Sorry for the mess!”

Greg relaxed immediately in the presence of three elementary-aged children who’d been huddled behind Mrs. Delacourt, eavesdropping.

The little girl had fairy wings on and calico, paint stained hands. Another, taller boy wore glasses, which he pushed up on his nose to better size up Wordy. The third—

“Ethan, my man!” Wordy reached over the children’s heads to high five a Hispanic boy. “How’s it shakin’?”

“I am learning frogs!” Ethan bounced up and down, shortest of the three foster children, to show Wordy a picture book in his hands. A bright green frog with red eyes adorned the cover.

Wordy displayed appropriate amazement. “Wow! Still into reptiles and amphibians, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Then Ethan turned abruptly to Greg. “I want to be zoo keeper when I grow up!”

Greg opened his mouth to reply when the little girl tapped his knee. “Why do you have a cane?”

“Thea!” Mrs. Delacourt sounded exasperated—though not surprised. “What did we say about being sensitive when we meet new people?”

Thea thought hard about this, then put up her index finger like a teacher. “Don’t start with nosy questions.”

Greg laughed and didn’t even try to censor it. “That’s good advice. Luckily, I don’t mind. See, a bad man hurt my leg last year.”

“Oh.” The boy pushed his glasses up again. He was even wearing a bow tie. “Like a criminal? You’re a policeman?”

“Exactly.” Greg nodded.

The three children blinked at each other, frowning, and it struck the adults afresh that these were not ordinary children from ordinary backgrounds.

“Why don’t we give these gentlemen some privacy.” Mrs. Delacourt leaned down to herd the oldest boy and girl into the kitchen. “You can eat some of the cake Papa baked. How does that sound?”

“Ah, food.” Wordy watched the pair race each other down the hall. “A magic spell for kids everywhere.”

“Don’t worry,” Greg assured Ethan, the boy watching but not saying anything. His hand was safely nestled in Wordy’s. “We’ll make sure you get a piece too. We just have some questions, if that’s okay with you.”

Ethan nodded.

They camped out in a spacious but thankfully lived-in sitting room. Though an opulent, European style, the Delacourts let the children run freely through their house. Crayons littered the carpet and the couch had stuffed animals hidden behind pillows. A plate of brownies sat on the piano.

Wordy sat next to Greg and, completely without prompting, Ethan crawled up into Wordy’s lap.

“Did you know toads and frogs not the same thing?”

Wordy tapped the page Ethan had flipped to. “I did know that. But I certainly didn’t know there were so many _kinds_. Crazy, isn’t it?”

Ethan leaned back against his chest. “Loco.”

Greg hummed an amused sound. “Did Mrs. Delacourt give you that book?”

“Si!” said Ethan. “She says call her Mama if we want, because she cannot have her own kids.”

Then his little brow scrunched. “My mama die, long time ago. Just me and Papi now.”

“We know, Ethan.” Wordy bounced him. “You can call her whatever you want. Do you miss Papi?”

Ethan just looked at his book for a minute. His chin went up and down. Wordy hugged him tight and Greg could tell they’d had this conversation already.

“Soon I get to see him?” asked Ethan, confirming it. “Once judge talks to Papi?”

Wordy rested his chin on Ethan’s shoulder. “You might have to live with the Delacourts a long time, Ethan.”

Ethan took this surprisingly well, nodding again. “Papi sells things he not tell me about. Bad things?”

Greg and Wordy shared a look.

“Sometimes,” Wordy murmured. “But he never hurt people, and that counts for a lot.”

Ethan thought about this, his eyes on the floor but not seeing it. Wordy rocked them a little. It helped, Ethan calming and looking around with those big brown eyes.

Greg tapped the boy’s knee. He asked the reason for their coming. “Do you like living here? Mrs. Delacourt is nice?”

“Very!” Ethan grinned again, a light by itself. “She give me lots of food and I get to stay at the same kindergarten!”

Wordy laughed. “Food is good. What’s it like not being an only child anymore?”

“The best,” said Ethan, surprising both men. Not the slightest hesitation came from his answer and Greg caught him eyeing the piano with a touch of contentment. “They play with me. Not mean.”

This was risky, but Ethan had been responding well so far. Greg knew it had to come up eventually—“If Papi has to go away for a while…”

Greg paused, asking Wordy a question with his eyes. Maybe they hadn’t discussed this.

But Wordy nodded.

“…Would you be okay if Mrs. Delacourt adopted you, Ethan? You don’t have to call her mom. You’d just get to live here for as long as you want.”

Ethan’s eyes went wide. “She adopt me?”

“Not yet,” Greg hastened to reassure. “But just in case, I want to see how you feel about it.”

“It would be okay.” Ethan spoke slowly and the divot crease between his eyes was back. “But I want to see Papi.”

“You’d still get to see him, don’t worry.” Wordy smoothed back the errant bangs on Ethan’s forehead. Purely instinctive as a father. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “This, however, would be where you _live_. Your place to sleep and go to school.”

“That’s okay, then.” Suddenly, something seemed to occur to Ethan. “Is Mr. Turtle hurt? Lots of bullets in the alley.”

Greg’s brows shot up. Mr. Turtle?

With a belly laugh that tapered off into hoarse chuckles, Wordy winked at Ethan. “We have _got_ to keep that nickname going.”

Greg was still lost. “What is he…?”

Wordy addressed Ethan. “Spike is fine, little man. Not a scratch on him.”

Greg lit up. “Oh! _Oh_, Dean and I are going to _milk_ that one at Christmas dinner for all it’s worth.”

“You’d better,” said Wordy.

Ethan watched them laugh again and exchange conspirator’s looks. He clearly didn’t understand what was so funny, but he seemed pleased to have caused it. “He save me and the tall one.”

Wordy hummed in his chest. “He sure did. The other’s man’s name was Ed.”

“Ed.” Ethan tried it out. “He looked sick.”

The two adults halted, staring down at him. Wordy’s posture turned alert and Greg felt himself mirror it, chest tight.

“Sick?” Wordy asked carefully. His eyes narrowed. “Ed isn’t sick, bud.”

Ethan shook his head. “His eyes no move, even when it started.” Ethan mimicked the gunfire in loud popping sounds. “He go really still.”

Greg knew it before he said it. “Ed froze up.”

“Si.” Ethan nodded. “He look scared at Senor Turtle.”

About a million alarms blared in that one statement, but Wordy caught a different issue. “That was really terrifying to live through, huh?”

Ethan curled into his chest. “Like a movie.”

Wordy tucked him under his chin, eyes clouded. And confused. From what Wordy had told them, Ethan wasn’t exposed to much media. _Especially _not violent games or movies. Say what you would about Luis Montego, but he kept his work and private life separate to the extreme. 

Ethan snuggled closer, his eyes a tad bright.

Greg understood first. “Do you mean…Ethan, does that day keep replaying in your head?”

Ethan sniffled the affirmative.

“Oh, buddy.” Wordy rubbed the boy’s back. “Did you know even adults get that too? Sometimes we see scary things that we can’t forget either. But it’ll be okay. You’re safe here.”

Shockingly, Ethan looked to Greg for confirmation. Greg wasted no time in nodding. “He’s right. The Delacourts live in a great neighbourhood with good security. Mr. Delacourt is a surgeon and he’s trained in self defense.”

“Not that,” said Ethan. Wordy dug in his pocket for a tissue to wipe the boy’s eyes and then his nose. “It’s what in my head. Even when I sleep.”

Greg looked into the boy’s eyes. They might have been almost forty years apart in age and from totally different backgrounds, but in this matter, Greg gazed at an equal. A fellow sufferer of traumatic things that would haunt for life.

Ethan played with a button on Wordy’s shirt.

“Nightmares are the worst,” said Greg. “But you can go to the Delacourts at any time of day.”

“That’s what they said.”

Wordy and Greg smiled.

“That’s cause they’re so smart,” said Wordy. “I’m glad you’re doing well. And you should take them up on it. No one is meant to be alone when they’re scared.”

* * *

At the end of a cul-de-sac, only one light was on, in the downstairs living room. A cat trotted by the window and a dog barked distantly, smelling it.

Though three in the morning, a man could be heard bolting awake. His cries startled the cat. It leaped away, deciding to find a mouse elsewhere.

All was silent for a moment.

Then the man began to weep. He put his head in his hands where he lay on the couch, his mutterings taking on a prayer-like quality as if this was his last hope. His bald head glistened by the light of a TV, on mute, that he’d forgotten to shut off.

Upstairs, his wife and daughter slept soundly on.

He thought about waking them, about stretching out beside her warm body and listening to her breathe.

In the end, he lay back and blinked up at the ceiling. His eyes didn’t relax until morning light crept through the blinds.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step to the wall. Two steps completed the circuit. Ed did it at least five times before Greg could process why this would bother him.
> 
> “Nothing happened. That’s what’s so stupid! I’m haunted by something that didn’t even happen!”

This time, someone’s hair was touching _him_.

Disoriented beyond belief, Spike let his ears do the work for him before opening cement-heavy eyes.

Someone plodded around Spike and muttered. Then there came a whistle of cold, followed by the instant warmth of a blanket pulled up to his chin.

Spike pried his eyes open just in time to catch Greg limping into the kitchen.

_Wait…that’s my kitchen._

Spike was draped across his own couch, yet another episode of _Murder, She Wrote_ playing on low. The culprit of the hair tickle on his chin was—

“Dean?”

Dean, for reasons unknown, had decided that going to the Academy meant shaving the sides of that unruly mop he called hair.

But _not _the top.

In fact, it kind of looked like Spike’s hair. More than he noticed until this moment.

Huh.

Thankfully, Spike’s voice came out a sleepy mess that didn’t wake Dean. Spike squinted out the window, then at a clock on the wall to see that it was after supper and the sun had already set.

They’d been out since lunch.

Spike, head on the back of the couch, had thrown one arm over Dean some time in the afternoon. Dean had landed on his left shoulder, breaths even. Good.

Ever since coming back from exams, all Dean had wanted to do was sleep and eat. It was a little concerning. He could doze at a moment’s notice. Give him a soft surface and a quiet room—he’d be out within the minute.

Spike felt fatigued himself, though he couldn’t pin down why. His droopy eyes watched Jessica Fletcher clackity-clack away at her typewriter without seeing it, trying to psych himself awake with little success.

A wooden gonging sounded from the kitchen.

It perked Spike instantly. Greg rarely cooked and when he did, it was never in _Spike’s_ kitchen. A scarce phenomenon indeed.

He extracted himself from Dean’s snugly grip, then gently laid him down fully. He propped the boy’s feet up on the couch and transferred the blanket until it settled around Dean’s bony frame. Spike smiled, fond, tucking it around exposed shoulders and toes.

Another banging sound.

Spike hurried to the kitchen, only to see Greg trying to scoop salad one-handed. The wooden tongs fell again to the counter.

“That’s okay,” said Spike, voice quiet. “Nobody likes salad anyway.”

Greg snorted. “All carbs with you. ‘More bread! More pasta!’ You’ve got to start eating greens.”

“I could’ve made supper,” said Spike—mostly to avoid the mother henning. “It’s my turn to keep Dean. I thought you had a date night with Marina?”

He phrased it as a question, despite the fact he already knew the answer.

Greg shrugged, which alerted Spike further. “She’s got a cold. We ended the night early so I thought I’d pop over and check on you. You didn’t answer your phone. Almost called in the national guard!”

“Sorry,” said Spike, chagrined. “We started to have a retro mystery marathon but Dean fell asleep by the second hour.”

“Uh-huh.” Belying Greg’s dubious tone, he smirked. “You know, he’s still a teenager under all that bravado.”

“Tell me about it! He can barely grow facial hair and they’re teaching him how to use a gun!”

“Who said I was talking about Dean?”

Spike flicked Greg’s shoulder. “Very funny. Give me those before you hurt yourself.”

“Is that an old man joke?”

Spike held up the commandeered salad tongs. “Hey, I’m just trying to make your life easier.”

“That’s what Dean always said when he tried to make me ‘sick day’ pancakes.”

“Is that before or after your smoke detector went off?”

“After, if you can believe it.”

Spike laughed, careful not to wake Dean. He took over chopping cucumbers and tossing the salad while Greg spread shredded cheese over a homemade pizza. Much easier with one hand on his cane.

Here, for the first time in weeks, Spike felt normal. This was his family. Here, he was _safe_.

It made him feel ashamed, like he didn’t deserve it. Had he really earned such a warm spot to nest his heart? Tallying it up, he had to admit he hadn’t really.

“Spike? You trying to eviscerate that cucumber?”

Oh. He’d practically minced it to an evergreen pulp. Greg reached over and took the knife away.

Spike sighed, hand over one side of his face. “I’m fine, boss.”

Greg nodded but he still didn’t return the knife.

“Sure you are,” he said. “Try again.”

Indecisive, unsure, Spike wouldn’t look at Greg. “Boss…Ed’s not allowed to talk about our current cases with you, is he?”

“Well, not exactly, but cops tend to—”

“Of course he’s not.” Spike scowled at himself. “Forget it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

So caught up in berating himself, Spike flinched when a hand landed on his wrist. Greg immediately removed it.

“Easy, Spike. Just me.”

“Yeah, I’m…” Spike flapped a hand. “I’m good.”

“Spike, you can tell me anything. To hell with confidentiality, especially if it’s eating you up this much.”

Spike stared, wide-eyed, at him. To hear his button-down legend of a mentor say such a thing felt bizarre.

“I mean it,” Greg insisted. He looked pleased and relieved that Spike had finally met his eyes. “So long as you don’t go blabbing to everyone on the street, cops confess stuff to each other all the time. It’s practically expected.”

“It’s nothing like that.” Spike shook his head. “I just wondered if Ed had mentioned…if he’d, well…”

Greg stilled. Kept his posture loose and non-threatening. If Spike wasn’t in such turmoil, he might feel patronized.

“Have I done something wrong?” he whispered. “Is Ed mad about almost getting shot?”

Greg blinked, visibly surprised. “Spike, I don’t think—”

“Because technically that was on me. I should have seen the stickers. Someone like Ed would never have known what they were but _I _did. That’s my job and I failed!”

“Spike, hey.” Greg grasped him by the shoulders. “I did hear about that Cortez-Montego spat. I don’t know all the details, but you were focused on Ethan. He was priority of life, not Ed. Ed knows that.”

Spike swallowed and it smarted. “He hasn’t…he doesn’t resent me? Hasn’t said anything about it?”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “Resent you? Where is this coming from? Ed has nothing but good things to say about how you and the team are doing.”

“I just…I’ve wondered if it’s my fault.”

The hands tightened their grip. “If what’s your fault?”

But like a sudden moment of nausea, Spike already felt he’d spewed too much. His lips clamped shut and he lowered his head to get away from Greg’s alarmed eyes.

Greg shook him a little. “Spike? Don’t shut me out.”

Logic made the world go round. Spike loved logic! It created engines and code and infrastructure and…

And logically, Spike knew Ed wasn’t psyching himself up to bench Spike from the team. His behaviour simply had a different, logical explanation. One Spike hadn’t solved or fixed yet. And he would fix it. He’d clearly done something wrong.

But _what if_?

For experience was another sort of teacher entirely.

* * *

Like clockwork, a knock came on Greg’s door for the third straight Saturday.

“Oh no.” Greg put a hand on his hip. “You are not touching my drywall until you explain what’s going on.”

Ed’s jaw jutted out, retracting only after he nodded. Still, he wandered for the stairs once Greg let him inside. Though as yet no snow, a frigid column of air followed Ed until he warmed up. He smelled of outside, of white skies and pine.

Both men made it into the bathroom. Ed sat on an overturned paint bucket, Greg on the edge of the tub. Neither reached for tools.

Then, finally, Ed stopped.

He was still, but Greg witnessed the precise moment he ran out of steam, drooping around the corners of his mouth and a hitch in his breathing. It charged the air in the room.

“You know what finally prompted me to go to therapy.”

_Getting right into it, then. _

Not a question. Greg mulled this one over. “May Dalton.”

“Right.” Ed played with a callous on his index finger. “That was the big one to work through. The nail in the coffin I couldn’t run from.”

“And you did work through it,” said Greg. “You gained peace and closure about that.”

Ed nodded. “I did, very much so. Even other incidents, they don’t…I’ve compartmentalized them. I’ll never forget them, though.”

“Of course.” Greg kept his pitch soft, soothing.

A thundercloud roiled in Ed’s narrowed gaze. “Therapy had become maintenance, you know? Routine. No hassle.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Greg’s brows lifted. “But? What changed?”

“Why is it…” Ed scrunched his nose and started again. He looked as surprised as Greg to be having this conversation. “Why would I be having nightmares about something that consciously doesn’t bother me?”

Greg wanted to argue this detail when Ed’s hands started shaking, but he pushed it back. “I take it your psychologist has already discussed this with you. It sounds rehashed.”

Ed nearly growled. “Supposedly, now that I’ve worked on the ‘Everest,’ my mind feels free to process the mole hills.”

_Sounds right to me. _Despite this, Greg felt more in the dark than before. He had no idea what therapy sessions had to do with this.

“Freak out, more like,” Ed muttered to himself. “My subconscious is just overreacting, that’s all.”

Greg catalogued the hard set to Ed’s teeth. “Are you sure it is?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they had been the wrong thing to say. His posited question shot Ed to his feet, pacing in the confined space; Greg might as well have electrocuted him.

One step to the wall. Two steps completed the circuit. Ed did it at least five times before Greg could process why this would bother him.

“Nothing _happened_. That’s what’s so stupid! I’m haunted by something that didn’t even happen!”

Greg had no idea what Ed was talking about, utterly lost now, but a deafening note of empathy rang through him, that instinctive and shared grief between intimate friends. He gasped at the force of it.

By sheer will power, he snagged a corner of Ed’s sleeve to stop his pacing. “Whatever this is, it’s scaring Spike.”

At the name, Ed turned white. He sat down, hard, next to Greg.

“It doesn’t matter whether it happened, Ed. Your guilt is keeping it alive—and it’s contagious.”

Ed put his face in his hands. “It’s not his problem. He’s supposed to be able to count on me. He shouldn’t have to deal with my burdens.”

“Too late, Eddie.”

Ed, shaken, looked up at him.

“You think you’re the only one on the team with a cross to shoulder?” Greg pushed.

“Of course not.”

“Because if you don’t face this, he’s going to think he let you down. Permanently.”

Both men sobered. Though not exactly a threat for most people, Spike _wasn’t_ most people. To make him doubt his value to them was an unforgivable crime.

Ed blew out a frayed breath. “My head is so messed up sometimes. He deserves better.”

Greg wrapped an arm around the man, jostling him to break the distant gaze. “Then _be_ better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Murder, She Wrote_ is another great show, if you ever get the chance to watch it. Her typewriter is the sound of my childhood.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean looked away, out the windshield. Wide awake for once. The cost of it, however, was too high in Spike’s opinion.
> 
> “Dean,” he whispered. “I would never have stayed at this job if I didn’t know the team had my back. Ed, your dad, Jules.”

“Live sharks?” Spike’s brows nearly touched his hairline. “Are you sure they weren’t baby tiger sharks?”

Winnie snorted. “_Sure, they weren’t great whites. But there were some nurse sharks. And stingrays!_”

“Too cool. Please tell me you got photos.”

A tapping on the window made Spike smile. He waved to let Dean know he was welcome to hop in the car, polite kid that he was.

“_Duh! Mr. Scarlatti, you of all people should know better than to doubt me._”

“Yeah.” Spike answered Dean’s question look by pointing to the cellphone and mouthing ‘Winnie.’ “But it’s just too much fun to listen to you go off on a rant.”

Dean leaned back with a silent, ‘Aahh.’

The boy’s hair was still wet from a shower, Academy sweater not so big on him now that he’d bulked up a bit. Right on cue, when his head hit the seat, his eyes got mellow and spacey. He listed a bit to the side, nearly touching Spike’s arm on the center console.

“_I miss you._”

The words came without warning in the middle of Winnie’s story. She sighed them out, sounding almost…sad? Longing?

Spike blinked. “Miss you too. As soon as you get back, risotto’s yours. I’m good on my promises.”

“_I know you are. It’s part of why I love you._”

She went silent and so did Spike, the thunderclap of her declaration catching both off guard. The very first time either of them had said it. It was so quiet that he heard a gull crying in the background of her beach phone call.

Spike checked on Dean, but the teen’s eyes were closed.

Still, he lowered his voice. “That had better be a promise too.”

“_It’s always been. I’m just starting to admit it now._”

Every last bit of Spike’s tension oozed away. Like putty, he sagged in his seat. “I’ll pick you up at Pearson on Sunday, alright?”

“_Don’t be late_.”

“When am I ever?”

Winnie hummed a silky sound and Spike felt the electricity of it zap all the way down his spine. It crackled into his bones. Fusing flesh to marrow with a warmth he wanted to bottle up forever.

He said his goodbyes in a haze and then sat there, watching police officers in training spill out the Academy doors.

“How do you make it work?”

Spike shook himself. He’d almost forgotten Dean was there. “Make what work?”

“This.” Dean opened his eyes and gestured to the phone. “She’s thousands of miles away.”

“But this is only for a few weeks, Dean. Your relationship with Mira has been long distance for _months_. That’s impressive and I’ve never experienced that.”

Dean sighed.

“Not going well?” Spike ventured. The boy hardly ever talked about his dating life, to everyone’s surprise. Like his father, he was open about most things.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, flinging water droplets on Spike’s jacket. “It is. But that almost makes it worse, the fact that we can’t see each other. Sometimes it’s a relief when we can’t talk for a few days.”

_Interesting._ Spike didn’t expect this. “I’m sure you miss her when that happens, though.”

Dean didn’t respond for a moment.

When he did, his voice was thin. “Yeah. I really do.”

“That’s a good sign! The person you’re dating should be your best friend, someone you want to confide in all the time for their opinion and seek out.”

“Where’d you learn that piece of advice?”

Spike huffed. “My mom, if you can believe it. She had a ton of weird anecdotes.”

“Such as?”

“Never date someone who won’t show you their sock drawer.”

Dean laughed. “That’s it. Call it off. Mira’s never seen my DC comics sock collection!”

Spike grinned.

“So how’s work?”

In mock exasperation, Spike threw up his hands. “What is it with everyone asking about work? It’s only Tuesday! Winnie always asks me that the minute I call!”

Dean didn’t laugh as much this time. His brown eyes glittered under street lamps popping on, tawny flecks around his pupils catching the cold, artificial light and heating it. 

Spike suddenly realized that the question sounded rehearsed.

“Dean—”

“You, like, seriously freaked Dad out last week. I have no idea what was said but he’s been weird about it ever since.”

Spike sighed through his nose. He started the car and pulled out into traffic for an excuse to move, to not look the younger Parker in his too-perceptive eyes.

“It’s nothing, Dean. Just…trying to figure out where I went wrong.”

Dean’s head rolled sideways on the headrest. His young eyes drawstring-ed Spike’s lungs.

_My brother._

“Maybe there’s nothing to figure out.”

“Dean.”

“Maybe you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“_Dean_.” Spike ruffled the boy’s leftover hair. “When someone starts to act differently towards you without explanation, it’s best to try and make amends.”

Dean’s lips mushed together. “That makes zero sense. Seriously, man.”

“I never want to be the reason someone feels unsafe out in the field,” Spike insisted. “There’s just some team dynamics stuff going on. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Yeah right.” Dean’s eyes, even at half mast, managed an impressive roll. “Pretty much impossible with you guys.”

“You know what? That’s fair. If you look up ‘dangerous jobs’ in the dictionary, our picture had better be there.”

“No.” Dean made a face. “_No_. I mean I worry because it’s _you_.”

Spike couldn’t help a stifled chuckle. “What, you trust Team One so little?”

“No. Ugh! I mean you’re just…_ugh._”

Spike laughed again, to Dean’s annoyance.

They stopped at a red light. Their breaths were the loudest sound in the car and an engine unto themselves.

“Not the team, Spike. _You_.”

Spike’s smile vanished. He glanced sharply at Dean, wondering if Greg had spoken to him about something. A spring in his gut coiled, a vice ready to winch at a second’s notice.

“You…you’re…” Dean flailed a hand. “Good and selfless and you still have a sense of humour after all the crap people have done in your life and…I don’t want you to lose that. It’s a miracle you’re not bitter.”

While most of this was a confusing trip to follow, the underlying emotion fluttered around in Spike’s stomach. He pulled over to better turn and face Dean. To his alarm, Dean blinked back a swimming line of tears.

He knuckled Dean’s scalp. “_Hey_, I’m right here. And touching as your concern is, I still know how to knock a man unconscious with one blow and hack the CRA half asleep if I wanted. Alright? I’m trained to handle myself.”

“That’s not it.” If anything, Spike’s words seemed to make things worse. Dean sniffed. “I’m not talking about the physical stuff.”

Spike spoke calmly, faint grin blossoming on his face. “Then what are you talking about?”

Dean looked away, out the windshield. Wide awake for once. The cost of it, however, was too high in Spike’s opinion.

“Dean,” he whispered. “I would never have stayed at this job if I didn’t know the team had my back. Ed, your dad, Jules.”

The flat-out refusal to look at him sprang that coil after all, for a wildly different reason. “Did you know this job is the happiest I’ve been in my entire life?”

_That_ brought Dean’s eyes around. He looked almost indignant, like Spike might be lying to him. “How?”

Spike leaned in close. “Because family was always a shaky concept for me. Not intellectually. I’m Italian after all and our homes were never cold. Full of noise and life.”

The first thorn of hesitation pierced Spike. He didn’t talk about this much, not even with Greg.

Dean’s wide eyes were patient. He nodded like he heard what Spike couldn’t say.

“Here,” Spike continued, “with this team, I know my place in their lives. There’s no gate keeping cost to be a part of it, not emotionally. They aren’t going to shut me out because my favours to them don’t outweigh how much they’ve given me.”

Something cleared in Dean’s eyes. “People who love each other don’t keep score.”

Spike nodded, solemn. “Exactly. Otherwise it’s not love. And I’ve never been more content, helping people with family I trust at my side.”

“And now?”

Spike heard what he was really asking.

“Now…” He sat back. “Now, sometimes I just need to be reminded of that.”

“We all do,” said Dean.

He leaned into the hand still on his head and only then did Spike realize he hadn’t removed it. Didn’t want to.

_Just like Ed._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re Ed, my boss, and I trust you with my life.”
> 
> Ed shook his head. “I don’t know if you should.”

'A man remains defended,  
So where do I begin  
To overtake the ending—  
All my bones they are for you.'

"Waiting" ~ Royal Wood

They’d left the garage door half lifted. Backlight from the street cast an approaching man in shadows but Greg knew who it was, knew that figure better than his own name.

“Can’t get enough of me at work?” the man called.

Greg heard the undertow of unease in that quip and Ed did too, judging by how he stood from the rolling stool next to his car in a knee jerk motion.

“We’re back here,” Ed didn’t raise his voice but Spike followed it anyway. He’d always had the best ears of them all. “Watch your head.”

Spike did, ducking under the garage door. Like Ed, he was still in his SRU sweater, sans vest of course. They’d barely gotten off shift an hour ago.

If Spike was surprised to find himself standing in Ed’s garage and both older men waiting for him, he didn’t show it. Not as much as Greg expected.

While most members of Team One liked to host, people never came to Ed’s house, not even for team barbecues. That was Wordy’s department. Sam and Jules liked to have people over for games. Spike cooked. Greg had an open door policy and Spike was over there at least twice a week.

Ed? Not so much.

“Do I get to find out what your cryptic text was about now?” Spike asked Ed.

Greg whapped his friend on the arm, tone scolding. “Ed, what did you tell him? We talked about not scaring him!”

Ed held up his hands. “I just said to meet me in my garage.”

Greg groaned. “You’re the worst.”

“Oh yeah? Whose idea was this in the first place?”

“You asked for my opinion!”

“You _said _I had to do it.”

“And I stand by that, Eddie.”

“Of course you do. Bossy as usual, I see. Glad to know the Academy hasn’t dulled your touch.”

“What touch? I have a cane now and I know how to use it.”

Spike’s eyes flipped between them with growing interest and speed, like a tennis match. He said nothing but Greg saw the questions burning behind his closed lips.

“Have a seat.” Ed pointed to the stool. It was rolled up in front of a closed metal cabinet.

Spike did so—albeit gingerly. His long legs ‘walked’ himself closer. “Is this the part where you shank me?”

“Just go with it.” Ed mussed his hair. “Cheeky brat.”

It didn’t escape Greg’s attention that both men froze a little when Ed touched his head.

_Oh, Eddie._

The whole story had come out in the bathroom on Saturday. All the sordid nuances Ed had been keeping inside for _years_.

Time they saw some light.

As if cued to Greg’s internal thought, Ed clasped Spike’s shoulder with barely concealed anxiety.

He bent down to catch Spike’s eye. “I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you with any of this. What I’m about to show you, it…it’s not…”

Greg stepped up for the whole reason he’d been invited for this. He placed a hand on his friend’s, the one on top of Spike.

“Eddie. It’s okay. You got him and nothing happened.”

Ed composed himself and nodded. “Spike, you have the right to understand. That’s all this is, me trying to be honest here.”

Spike’s lips thinned, eyes wider than they should be, and though Ed’s grave-side behaviour clearly spooked him, he nodded back.

Greg knew Spike couldn’t understand the momentous occasion this was, the simple act of Ed stepping up to slide a dainty key into the cabinet lock, but it made his eyes sting nonetheless. Not even Greg had seen it. Only Sophie had been privileged enough to have Ed show her.

All three held their breaths.

Ed swung open the double doors.

It was…messier than Greg expected. That was his first impression and it didn’t fade when his eyes did the full tour.

Pages fluttered on every available inch of space, a countless and dizzying miasma of newspaper pages, handwritten notes, accolades, police reports—illegally photocopied—and tacked up photos.

Few of the people in those photos were living.

Spike didn’t move, not in the first minute, not the second. Only his eyes roamed around. For nearly five minutes, he just drank it all in, not looking at Greg or Ed on either side. Bracketed by their bodies, Spike was a statue, a silent witness to the monument of Ed’s guilt.

He’d been building it for over a decade.

Then Spike rocked back a hair. “But, Ed, I’m not in any of these photos.”

A massive rush of pride zinged through Greg. _That’s my boy. Smart as hell._

There was a teeny-tiny newspaper clipping taped behind a large sheaf of photos on the left hand door. Ed peeled it off and handed it to Spike.

Spike didn’t read the whole thing, didn’t need to.

At last, emotion appeared on Spike’s face. He looked up at Ed with his large eyes. “This case was over three years ago. The one with the discharged soldier trying to save the arena, right? White phosphorous nearly killed Sam.”

Ed’s chin quivered for a beat. He stilled it immediately, but Spike let out an awed breath.

“Ed.” Spike visibly reined his shock in. Not fast enough, yet with enough control to impress Greg. “Nobody died that day but the soldier. You saved Sam’s life. You saved _my _life, stupid as I was to get overpowered like that.”

Ed couldn’t hold back any longer. Something about the serenity of this moment, them alone on a quiet street, sun setting, Spike safely below them in one piece, it broke Ed. A clipped sob escaped before he could stop it.

Spike’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of incredulity. “Ed—”

“I didn’t have the shot.” Ed shook his head, lips a trembling mess. “Your head was all I could see in the scope. For almost three minutes, I stared at your forced-back scalp through the crosshairs. He knew exactly where I was perched and made sure you were between me and him. A human shield.”

Ed choked on another aborted sound. “That’s why I took the shot the instant he shoved you. I thought he’d raised his gun at _you_, not Sam. I couldn’t see where you’d gone. I couldn’t _see_ you and…I…”

Ed didn’t weep exactly, not like he had in Greg’s bathroom.

Somehow, the twitching of his chin and the wail-like sounds of his exhales were worse. Spike could only stare at him. The newspaper clipping of the arena shooting fluttered in his grip.

“And I keep _dreaming_ about it.”

Spike’s face fell. “You keep dreaming that you shot me instead.”

“I know. I _know _it didn’t happen. But I close my eyes and your head is all I see. In pieces.”

Ed hid his face behind shaking hands. They were immutable, hushed, for a stretch.

Outside, the first snowfall of the season descended in faint, fat flakes. Melting as soon as they hit the ground, the windless night allowed joined flakes to create brief gossamer shapes on the pavement.

Spike’s eyes hardened.

He stood from his chair and startled Ed. Then he swiveled around, searching for something in the garage.

Greg, by the intuition of fathers and brothers-in-arms everywhere, knew exactly what he was doing. He pointed to the far wall. “There’s one over there, Spike.”

Spike bully marched to the stainless steel garbage drum and whipped out the plastic bag. Then he carried it out to the front driveway.

Ed followed in mute wonder. Mystified. He didn’t ask what Spike was doing, just joined Greg in standing around the can like they were suddenly homeless.

Spike glanced one more time at the newspaper clipping and then threw it in. He produced a box of matches from his pocket.

Ed’s eyes widened but still he didn’t protest.

Spike struck a match and tossed that in too. Wordless, the trio watched it burn to nothing.

Then Spike looked to Ed. One brow lifted slowly in question.

Ed stared at the line of smoke, then to flakes settling in Spike’s hair. In his long lashes like icing sugar.

He nodded once. “Okay, Spike.”

Spike wasted no time. He darted to the cabinet, ripped down every last sheaf of papers and photos with his fingernails until they turned red and his mouth was a savage, jagged line. He left up only the awards and accolades.

He dumped every last item in the can. The cabinet, and Ed’s bulletin board of failure, was empty.

In a rare fit of righteous anger, Spike lit not one but _three_ matches. A sharp crackle preceded a much bigger fire that roared to life in bluish yellow flames. They whooshed upwards with the stale smell of laminated photo paper burning. Of yellowed newspaper dissolving to ash.

Across the flames, Spike glared at Ed. “Family is about not keeping score. No record of our mistakes except what’s needed to learn. You know who taught me that? You did, all of you.”

Ed’s chin started up again.

“And what’s more?” Spike barked a wet laugh. “_None of these_ are failures. They’re proof that you’ll keep me safe at this job, that I trust you just as much as Greg.”

And there it was. The trigger that had started Ed’s PTSD with this particular memory.

Tender-hearted Spike got to the root of things much faster than even Greg sometimes. Their boy, their young and puppy-eyed kid with more wisdom in his big heart than all of them combined when the moment was right.

“You’re Ed, my boss, and I trust you with my life.”

Ed shook his head. “I don’t know if you should.”

“Tough.” Spike’s eyes flashed. “Because it’s not your choice to make. This transition has been hard on all of us, but you’re not ‘lesser.’ You’re not filling Greg’s shoes. You’re protecting us in your own way.”

Greg agreed with this sentiment by looping an arm around Ed’s heaving shoulders.

Spike pointed to the can. “No more.”

Ed reached around to pull Spike in for a rough embrace. His hand landed in Spike’s hair. Greg knew he was feeling the younger man’s pulse, the unmarred, healthy curve of his scalp. The lack of blood.

“No more,” Ed breathed.

Around them, darkness settled, a warm, cozy twilight. It highlighted snowflakes winking by dying firelight.

Both men were painted in hazy lines and Spike’s joyful smile by sharp contrast. Greg looked up at the sky. A snowflake melted on his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Ed whispered. “_So_ sorry for how I’ve treated you, out of fear. I’m just so tired and sorry. So sorry…”

Spike twined his arms around Ed’s neck and Greg’s gut went gooey. How he loved these people.

He took a mental photograph of the moment, trying to memorize the dimples in Spike’s cheeks and the way Ed tilted his head into the embrace, his nose in Spike’s hair, shielding hand cupping the back of their boy’s head.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Ed. Nothing at all.”

Ed finally stopped shaking.

* * *

They were all different, this hodgepodge of people:

Wordy mussed with his hair. Sam noogied it if he managed to catch Spike in a good head lock. Jules tucked it in place. Leah flicked his temple to get his attention. Greg eyed the scar on his head with sadness and a protective fire.

Ed caressed it.

Not often, after that day in the garage, but sometimes. When the day had ended and they’d just finished a long call…

Spike didn’t look up when the calloused hand picked through matted strands of his hair.

He did—maybe, just maybe—nuzzle into it an infinitesimal amount.

If Spike really admitted it to himself, a part of his heart had never grown up, forever a scared child, until he met these people. And though that corner was small, they’d raised it.

They’d taught him how to love unconditionally, what it meant to have someone’s back, how you could trust people with the little things, not just your physical well being.

That you didn’t have to pay dues to be loved by your family. That sometimes people loved you because they could and longed to.

By God, they’d raised it.

A hidden grin appeared in the pockets of his mouth.

“Winnie coming to the game at Sam’s tonight?”

Spike blinked. “Are _you_?”

Ed made a thinking sound, hand still unashamedly smoothing across Spike’s head. “Actually, yeah. Sophie’s coming too.”

“Full house, then,” said Spike. “So long as Sadie doesn’t tear the Christmas tree down.”

Ed laughed, nudging Spike’s shoulder with his hip. “She’s only got a few days to go before she can tear open all the shiny presents underneath.”

Spike grinned full on now, zipping up his coat. “You ready?”

Ed heard what he was really asking, eyes fond.

He finally removed his hand—

“Better every day.”

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! 
> 
> This case/episode, that moment in the arena Ed finally works through, is one that always bothered me for reasons I found hard to articulate. We got several shots of Spike's head through Ed's crosshairs, a harrowing image judging by Ed's expression alone, and then it was never discussed again. Thus, this piece was born!

**Author's Note:**

> Written March/April 2019.


End file.
